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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25280251">Speakeasy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/whilewilde/pseuds/whilewilde'>whilewilde</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Glee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1920s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Film AU, Historical AU, M/M, kurt as a successful actor as he should, like Hollywood but nothing like Hollywood, there’s just films in it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:14:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,044</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25280251</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/whilewilde/pseuds/whilewilde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt Hummel is a world famous silent film actor, until the invention of talkies and up and coming actor Blaine Anderson puts his job in jeopardy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel, klaine - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Another successful movie, huh?” Kurt and his assistant, Charlie, left the movie theatre, unnoticed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What, like it’s hard? Things are a lot easier when there’s no lines to learn.” Kurt replied as the two headed down the now dark street.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It had become some of sort of ritual for the pair, ever since Kurt had starred in first film: ‘The Brigadier.’ Management were convinced that it wouldn’t work. So much so that when Clint Elwood saw him on set he had to watch his Buster Keaton collection to cope. Luckily for Kurt, they didn’t exactly have the budget to bin it, and so The Brigadier went to screen.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It didn’t just defy expectations; it completely destroyed them. This 5’10 newcomer, gentle faced and with hair that seemed to defy gravity, was a far cry from the stoney faced actors of old. Soon, Kurt Hummel was a household name. The fact that few knew how he actually sounded was a minor detail.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The rest was history.” Kurt interrupted his own train of thought, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his wool trench coat to protect himself from he bitter New York cold.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know they’re saying that they can actually record talkin’ in these things?” Charlie asked, pulling a cigarette from his breast pocket, placing it in his mouth and lighting it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This was hardly news to Kurt. The second management got wind of it, they had forced Kurt’s hand. It was either he did a talkie, or he walks, they said. Well, Kurt Hummel never walks, but he wasn’t going to be beaten at his own game either, so he told management that it was all rumours... the day they make talkies is the day man walks on the moon.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hearing it from Charlie was different, though. Charlie was a short, squat family man, with a big heart and a good head on his shoulders. You had to have one to survive as long as he had.When he told you something was going one way or the other, you’re damn sure it will.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not sayin’ you should be worried, you got bundles of talent, kid. I’m just sayin’.” Charlie explained as the two came to a halt outside an old shoe shop, since abandoned.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Rudolph Valentino died a month ago! You remember that? You had people killing themselves and a week of riots because of it. I’ll be fine, you enjoy your evening.” Kurt replied, hunching his shoulders and looking left and right for any sign of a cab.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The street remained deathly silent, not a Ford in sight.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why don’t you come in for one?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have 30 facial expressions I need to perfect by Monday, but you have one on me.” Charlie pulled Kurt into a brief hug before entering the shop and heading to the back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2">Kurt scuffed his brogues on the pavement, swearing under his breath as a grey mark ruined the shine. Management would have a field day about that. They had already had a go at him for not flattening his hair with Brylcreem like everyone else.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Suddenly, from behind him, there came a serious of bangs and muffled shouting, growing louder with every second. Kurt stepped into the street so as to have deniability, when the door was flung open and a man was thrown out by another man in a dark suit.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey! That’s not fair!” The man on the pavement shouted as the door closed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You okay?” Kurt asked, approaching the stranger but keeping his distance.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, they think I’m a cop.” He huffed, getting to his feet albeit unsteadily.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You kinda look like one.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt wasn’t lying either. The stranger couldn’t have been more than 25 at a stretch. 5’6 or 5’7... Kurt couldn’t be sure, Hazel eyes and black hair slicked down with so much product even a brick couldn’t move it, he certainly was something.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How?!” The stranger shouted, trying to look intimidating and failing miserably.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re wearing a tan trench coat, for one.” Kurt answered nonchalantly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If Kurt was anything like the guys in that bar - and he was sure that he wasn’t - he would be alarmed by that coat alone. Then there was the shirt with a tie and the black slacks just a bit too short so they showed off his ankles. Kurt wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not, and he wasn’t sure which was worse.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My friends think it’s cool!” the stranger protested, waving his hands frantically.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right... well you have a good night.” Kurt had turned around before he even finished his sentence, giving the man a shy wave.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2">“Wait! Hey! Hold up!” As the shouting grew closer, Kurt broke into a run, heading back towards the direction of the theatre.</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I really have to learn 30 facial expressions by Sunday but have a good time!” Kurt gritted his teeth as he reached the theatre, entering the lobby and pausing to catch his breath.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt’s heart was pounding furiously in his chest and he had to lean against a pillar to recover. He really had to stop doing that.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. One Night in New Jersey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Blaine Anderson awoke with a splitting headache, barely able to open his eyes without involuntarily wincing. The sunlight that peaked through his blackout curtains - which had turned out not to be blackout at all, rather they let in more light than his last lightweight ones did- forcing him to eventually stir and gently coax himself into sitting up, rubbing his eyes. For $110 a week, his apartment was a modest affair which saw the kitchen and living room squashed together into one small space, and the bedroom being big enough only to house a double bed, a wardrobe and a mirror. It wasn’t exactly the kind of place he’d dreamed of as a kid, but he was lucky to even have a place when the rest of the country seemed to be feeling the brunt of economic hardship.</p><p>The shouting of the paper sellers from outside his apartment block accompanied the thudding in his forehead as he groaned, briefly pressing his face into the pillow and wishing for another 3 hours of sleep. Blaine crawled out of bed and clambered onto his feet, wincing as his bare feet nearly impaled itself on a splinter from the bare wooden floor. He really needed to get that sorted out. These days he barely had the strength to take a look at the state of his sheets and the peeling baby blue wallpaper, both in desperate need of destruction.</p><p>“Hey! Blaine! Are you in there?” Blaine winced, holding his forehead in his hands as he navigated his way to the front door, still dressed in his white vest and blue boxer shorts, too hungover to even think of wearing clothes or sorting his hair, now messy and unkempt, into a sensible style.</p><p>“YEAH! Jesus! I’m here.” Blaine opened the door and a distraught Quinn pushed on right past him, leaving Blaine to wave in Finn who was stood behind sheepishly waiting for an invitation.</p><p>Whenever the two stood next to each other, it was hard to take either of them seriously. There was Quinn, blonde hair battled into submission to achieve Marcel waves, the picture of elegance in a black velvet dress, and then there was Finn. Finn was handsome in his own right and it wasn’t fair to suggest otherwise, but he always looked as if he had dressed in a hurry to turn up to an event that he had no intention of attend in the first place. Today Finn’s hair was completely flattened and was wearing an evening tuxedo, an expensive number at that. It was 11am.</p><p>“Finn… you know those are meant for the evening, right?” Blaine asked, slamming the door shut behind him as they took their places on his shabby brown couch.</p><p>“Right, ‘cause you’re dressed even better.” Finn mumbled, rolling his eyes and earning a gentle punch on the shoulder from Quinn in return.</p><p>“Listen, shut up, both of you. We need to talk about… this.” Quinn demanded, waving her hands around as Blaine was forced to look at the place he called home for the last 4 years.</p><p>The half burnt carpet from the fire 2 years ago, the various crockery and utensils littered about the place and the typewriter discarded off into the corner just amplified his shame. Quinn was right, of course, he really should take better care of himself. Then again, that was easier said than done, especially when you were 26 and going from job to job with almost no notice.</p><p>“What’s wrong with it?” Blaine and Finn said almost simultaneously, grinning like idiots.</p><p>“It smells like shit, Blaine. I don’t even need to look in the kitchen to know that everything is probably growing a personality at this point. You need to sort it out.” Quinn launched into full lecture mode as Blaine simply hung his head, praying his headache away.</p><p>“And let’s not even start on that black eye you have! What am I supposed to tell the studio now?” Blaine raised his head.</p><p>“How am I supposed to know if I have a black eye or not?” He questioned, gently prodding at the tender skin around his eyes.</p><p>“Dude, you have a mirror!” Finn replied, disgusted by the figure sat in front of him.</p><p>Finn always thought it was sad how little Blaine actually cared about himself. After all, he wanted be an actor, and when was the last time you saw Charlie Chaplin look like he had been dragged through a hedge backwards? In high school, Finn had always remembered Blaine as the popular kid, well built and a disarming smile. The bruised and uncomfortable shell of a man across the room from him was a far cry away from his past self.</p><p>“I feel like you’re ignoring the most important part, idiot. The studio has been trying to get to you all morning so they eventually came and harassed us because they have this massive role for a new picture. Get this-a talking picture!” Quinn waited for some kind of reaction from Blaine. This had been his dream since he was a kid, after all.</p><p>“Are you freaking kidding me? You’re not excited?” Finn cut in before Quinn could answer, standing up and pacing up and down the room as if it would bring an answer as to why Blaine was so reluctant.</p><p>“What’s the point? So I have to wrestle with my hair for fifty minutes- and then I’ll have to buy Braille cream because guess what? I used it all on the other bullshit auditions- just to show up and be told ‘oh we’ll get back to you’ so I can sit on my ass and cry all evening?” Blaine ranted, leaning forward in his chair.</p><p>Without a word, Quinn shook her head, threw a thick bundle of paper onto the floor where a coffee table should’ve been, and the two exited from his flat without even saying goodbye. They’d get over it, he was sure of it. They always did. Blaine didn’t blame them for being so passionate on behalf of him, after all, that was what friends are for, but he just wished they would move on. Clearly he was headed for a job in a tailors or a shop rather than on the stage. Maybe he could sell houses.</p><p>As time passed by, Blaine seemed to lose confidence in his first conclusion. Reluctantly, he picked up the script and practically winced upon viewing the summary. It was the first talking film about a detective who is on the hunt for a notorious serial killer, but it was written in such a way that it was clearly a poor retelling of the Jack the Ripper murders with a bit of Spring-heeled Jack folklore thrown in. Blaine was noted for the role of Detective Inspector Redwood, a gentle yet by the book kinda guy who eventually snaps due to his personal. Connection to the case. The title? ‘One night in New Jersey.’ It was set in Manchester, England. He huffed, flicking through the script once more until his eyes landed on the framed photo of the three of them.</p><p>“Fine, but they owe me one.”</p>
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